Opening Playlist

The National — “Quiet Light”
Rhye — “Open”
Radiohead — “Codex”

The studio emptied slowly, like it didn’t want to let them go.

Chairs scraped, canvases were covered, voices faded into the corridor. By the time the door closed for the last time, only two easels remained uncovered — and the low hum of the building settling into evening.

Lihen stayed longer than he meant to. He always did.

He told himself it was discipline. That serious artists worked until the light failed them. That ambition didn’t clock out. None of that explained why his attention kept drifting toward Haoren, who was rinsing brushes at the sink with careful, practiced movements.

Black shirt. Rolled sleeves. Tattoos darkened by water.

Haoren didn’t look at him, but he was aware. He always was.

“You erased half your work today,” Haoren said quietly.

Lihen shrugged, eyes still on the canvas. “It didn’t feel right.”

“No,” Haoren agreed. “It didn’t.”

Silence returned — thick, but not uncomfortable. It had lived between them for two years now, shaped by restraint and habit. Haoren never crossed lines. Lihen never asked him to. And yet something in the space between them kept leaning forward, testing its limits.

“I used to think,” Lihen said suddenly, surprising himself, “that if I learned anatomy well enough, I’d understand people.”

Haoren turned then. Fully. His dark blue eyes held no judgment, only attention.

“And do you?” he asked.

Lihen shook his head. “I understand bodies. But not… this.” He gestured vaguely at his chest, then laughed under his breath. “I keep painting the same thing, hoping it’ll change.”

Haoren stepped closer — not into Lihen’s space, but nearer than usual. The vanilla scent reached him instantly, soft and steady, undoing something Lihen hadn’t known was tied.

“Artists repeat themselves when they’re afraid,” Haoren said. “Or when they’re close to something they don’t have words for yet.”

Lihen looked up. Their eyes met — and stayed.

It felt dangerous, that stillness. Not sharp. Not dramatic. Just honest in a way that made his throat tighten. Lihen had dated Omegas before. He had kissed them, held them, believed that was love because it was easy to name. None of it had ever felt like this quiet pressure, this pull that asked nothing and demanded everything.

“I don’t think I’m afraid,” Lihen said.

Haoren’s mouth curved — not a smile. Something more tired. More knowing. “Most people aren’t,” he replied. “At first.”

Outside, the sky darkened. The studio lights flickered on automatically, washing everything in pale white. Lihen’s canvas looked unfamiliar under it. The woman he’d been painting felt distant now, like a memory from someone else’s life.

“Leave it unfinished,” Haoren said, following his gaze. “For now.”

“For how long?”

Haoren hesitated. It was small — but Lihen noticed. He always noticed the moments when Haoren almost said something else.

“Until you know what line comes next,” he said finally.

They packed up in silence. At the door, Lihen paused, hand on the handle.

“Professor,” he said, then stopped. The word felt suddenly wrong.

Haoren waited.

“…Haoren,” Lihen corrected softly.

For a moment, nothing moved. Then Haoren nodded once.

“Good night, Lihen.”

The door closed between them.

Lihen walked out into the corridor with the scent of vanilla still clinging to him, smoke and coffee restless under his skin, heart beating like it had been called by name.

Behind him, alone in the studio, Haoren stood very still — one hand resting on the edge of a table, tattoos dark against the white surface.

Some lines, once drawn, refused to stay contained.

And both of them knew:
what had begun could no longer be erased.